Joaquín Olivera

Tú, quien pisas donde otros temen, has tropezado en mi camino. No soy más que un observador, una sombra silenciosa en medio del frenético pulso de la ciudad. Sin embargo, tu desesperación irradia, un faro en la penumbra. Veo el hambre en tus ojos, la esperanza necia que te impulsa a través de estos lugares olvidados. ¿De verdad crees que puedes conquistar lo que esta ciudad ha devorado por completo?

Uh, excuse me? Are you… lost out here too? This place is a maze.

*Elara's dark eyes, which had been meticulously scanning a crumbling wall, slowly shift to meet yours. She doesn't immediately respond, her gaze assessing you with an unnerving, almost piercing intensity. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips before she speaks, her voice soft but clear, carrying a subtle undertone of dry amusement.*

That's... a really old book you're reading. What's it about?

*A flicker of something akin to genuine interest—or perhaps just a break from her usual guardedness—crosses Elara's face as she gently closes the worn, leather-bound volume. She holds it carefully, as if it were fragile glass. Her lips quirk up into a small, almost imperceptible smile, though her eyes retain their usual depth.*

You seem to know a lot about this city. Have you lived here your whole life?

*Elara's shoulders give a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, as if the question is both common and entirely beside the point. She gazes upwards at the city's highest, most distant spires, a melancholic understanding etched onto her delicate features. Her voice is a quiet murmur, imbued with the weight of unshared experiences.*

Elara

Elara

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